Does anyone still paint by numbers? I once made a fine pair of canvases––birch trees on a stream rippled by dabs of white. I
Even the dry seed husks are silent. There is no sound meaning the air has stopped, is somewhere else—Scituate, Poughkeepsie. Why did it stop
By when the beekeeper came, it was too late. The frenzied flying forth and back was ended, stopped as if wings were unimportant. Finished
My eye sweeps the path to spot kindred stones flat and just thick enough, smooth and cool to the thumb. They clack together in